that Miss Wilson and Mr. Warrior and the Dimerys helped organizeâbought their old school building and grounds. âWe wanted to keep it for ourselves, because our parents worked so hard to get it for us,â Miss Wilson says. Big photographs of Seminole-Negro Indian Scouts hang on the wall near her old school bell.
Now Black Seminoles return to the school from all over the United States and Mexico twice a year to celebrate their history. âWe have a celebration on Juneteenth [June 19],â Miss Wilson says, âbut thatâs to honor those Negroes who were slaves. We were not slaves. And since we started our organization and are trying to get our people back, we have what we call âSeminole Daysâ the third weekend in September. We dance. We sing the old songs. We wear our long Seminole dresses and our turbans. I tell you, we have a good time. On Sunday, we go to the cemetery and have a service in memory of the scouts.â
She sighs. âI think the Seminole culture is dying, though, even in Mexico. There are very few of the original Seminoles left down there, because of intermarrying with the Mexicans. Thatâs why the older ones like me are trying to pass something on to the kids.â
But much has been lost, she says, because the Black Seminoles always have been reluctant to talk about their lives and history.
âI didnât hear much about the scouts after we left the camp,â she says. âThe older people just didnât open up. It was their upbringing, I guess. Maybe itâs the Indian in them. But after I retired from teaching, I became interested in our history. I give talks here and there. And Willieâs getting to the place where heâll open up.â
Willie Warrior is 64 years old. He wears the Western hat and boots befitting a lawman on the Rio Grande. When he was in grade school, Miss Wilson was his teacher, and in 1945 he was one of the first two black students to graduate from the 12th grade in Brackettville.
Mr. Warrior is the grandson of Carolino Warrior and the nephew of Curley Jefferson, the last of the scouts to die, and heâs a mine of information. He owns a big briefcase stuffed with photographs and documents, and can spin tales for hours.
One by one, he pulls the pictures and the papers from the case and tells a story about each: âWhen John Warrior enlisted in the service, he stammered. When they asked him his name, he couldnât get it all out. He said, âWarr⦠Warr⦠Warrâ¦âSo they wrote him down as âWard.â Heâs buried next to his father, Tony Warrior.
âBack in Florida, everybody had just one name. Like âJuly,ââ he says. âBut it was in Spanish. It was âJulio.â And my great-grandfather was âGuerrero,â which means âWarrior.â âGuillermo Guerreroâ is my name in Spanish. John Horseâs name was âJuan Caballo.â
âYou take a black kid or an Anglo kid and raise him in Mexico, heâs going to be a Mexican,â he says. âYou raise him as an Indian, heâs going to be an Indian. Itâs where youâre raised, and who youâre raised with. Down here on the border, everything bleeds into one.â
He pauses for a drink of whiskey. He says he wishes more people would listen. âWe try to teach the young ones,â he says, âbut they donât want to learn. We try to make them understand, but they donât care.
âThere were Some Seminoles who were never slaves, you know. My father traced back our family history, and he could not find a generation of Warriors who had ever been slaves. â¦â
Willie Warrior opens up, deep into the night, telling the stories.
February 1992
JOHN
One of the few people I envy is John Graves. He has lived two of my best fantasies - taking a long canoe trip on a river alone, and finding a quiet, beautiful place away from everybody and living
Now Black Seminoles return to the school from all over the United States and Mexico twice a year to celebrate their history. âWe have a celebration on Juneteenth [June 19],â Miss Wilson says, âbut thatâs to honor those Negroes who were slaves. We were not slaves. And since we started our organization and are trying to get our people back, we have what we call âSeminole Daysâ the third weekend in September. We dance. We sing the old songs. We wear our long Seminole dresses and our turbans. I tell you, we have a good time. On Sunday, we go to the cemetery and have a service in memory of the scouts.â
She sighs. âI think the Seminole culture is dying, though, even in Mexico. There are very few of the original Seminoles left down there, because of intermarrying with the Mexicans. Thatâs why the older ones like me are trying to pass something on to the kids.â
But much has been lost, she says, because the Black Seminoles always have been reluctant to talk about their lives and history.
âI didnât hear much about the scouts after we left the camp,â she says. âThe older people just didnât open up. It was their upbringing, I guess. Maybe itâs the Indian in them. But after I retired from teaching, I became interested in our history. I give talks here and there. And Willieâs getting to the place where heâll open up.â
Willie Warrior is 64 years old. He wears the Western hat and boots befitting a lawman on the Rio Grande. When he was in grade school, Miss Wilson was his teacher, and in 1945 he was one of the first two black students to graduate from the 12th grade in Brackettville.
Mr. Warrior is the grandson of Carolino Warrior and the nephew of Curley Jefferson, the last of the scouts to die, and heâs a mine of information. He owns a big briefcase stuffed with photographs and documents, and can spin tales for hours.
One by one, he pulls the pictures and the papers from the case and tells a story about each: âWhen John Warrior enlisted in the service, he stammered. When they asked him his name, he couldnât get it all out. He said, âWarr⦠Warr⦠Warrâ¦âSo they wrote him down as âWard.â Heâs buried next to his father, Tony Warrior.
âBack in Florida, everybody had just one name. Like âJuly,ââ he says. âBut it was in Spanish. It was âJulio.â And my great-grandfather was âGuerrero,â which means âWarrior.â âGuillermo Guerreroâ is my name in Spanish. John Horseâs name was âJuan Caballo.â
âYou take a black kid or an Anglo kid and raise him in Mexico, heâs going to be a Mexican,â he says. âYou raise him as an Indian, heâs going to be an Indian. Itâs where youâre raised, and who youâre raised with. Down here on the border, everything bleeds into one.â
He pauses for a drink of whiskey. He says he wishes more people would listen. âWe try to teach the young ones,â he says, âbut they donât want to learn. We try to make them understand, but they donât care.
âThere were Some Seminoles who were never slaves, you know. My father traced back our family history, and he could not find a generation of Warriors who had ever been slaves. â¦â
Willie Warrior opens up, deep into the night, telling the stories.
February 1992
JOHN
One of the few people I envy is John Graves. He has lived two of my best fantasies - taking a long canoe trip on a river alone, and finding a quiet, beautiful place away from everybody and living
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